


A New Habit

by katesfolly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Gen, Music, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Sherlock's Violin, fiddle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katesfolly/pseuds/katesfolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his return to 221B, Sherlock seems to have developed a new habit, but he's not exactly forthcoming with personal information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Habit

**Author's Note:**

> First fic on Ao3, and I don't have a beta/britpick, so constructive criticism welcome!

The first time it happened was just three weeks after Sherlock came back. John was nodding in front of the latest Dr. Who when Sherlock tossed down the Forensics Journal he was reading and stalked off to his room. Thinking it was high time he got some kip himself, John yawned and raised his voice to say, “Going upstairs, ‘night Sherlock.”

When he got there, he realized he’d left his novel downstairs and came back after it. Sherlock was standing by the door, winding his (new) scarf around his neck. They both stilled. It was awkward, had been awkward ever since Sherlock had reappeared at 221B, skinnier than ever but otherwise very little changed, and John had, well, everything. Raged and cried and punched him once, hard and in the gut.

John was still sometimes startled when Sherlock was there, and every time he left, John’s upper brain shut down a bit and his gut worried that he wasn’t coming back. Sherlock, for his part, seemed to understand this, and kept his wandering to a minimum, and had begun actually telling John before he left most of the time, even texting him when he was out sometimes, ostensibly for some reason, which was always creative and never quite believable. After all, he’d never needed a reason to text John before. Before. 

Now, frozen with his scarf half on, he looked like a boy caught with his hand in cookie jar.

“Ah, going out, then?” John tried to make it sound casual.

“Obviously.” There was sarcasm, but he was watching John carefully.

“Enjoy.” Casual, casual, casual. John picked up the book; whatever he saw must have reassured him, because Sherlock resumed putting on his coat and pulled on soft leather gloves as well. 

“I’ll text you.” Sherlock didn’t look his way again, but he picked up the violin case John hadn’t noticed at his feet as he left.

The door slammed behind him, and John turned slowly to contemplate what he’d just seen, when he picked up the book. Sure enough, Sherlock’s violin case was sitting, open as usual, amid a pile of debris on the side table. 

***

The second time it happened, they had just finished a case, and were having celebratory Chinese, while Sherlock talked ad nauseam about Chinese astrology, which unlike astronomy, he had not deleted. He did not see the irony of this fact, despite John pointing it out. 

“Astronomy, which is an actual science, somehow doesn’t rate space in the mind palace, but astrology, which is a combination of myth and flim-flam, somehow does?”

“Belief systems always affect human behaviour, unlike, say, the movement of space rocks millions of miles away. I am professionally invested in one, and not the other. Now finish your lo mein, we are leaving.”

John could feel his face rearranging itself into a mingled expression he often wore around Sherlock, the arithmetic mean of fond, amused, disbelieving, and disgusted.

But he followed him.

When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock made a beeline for his room, and came out before John had even finished putting the kettle on wearing a fresh shirt and carrying the second violin case. John managed to keep his reaction to blinking, twice. 

“No tea?”

“I’m going out.”

“Obviously.” John muttered. He watched him go. 

An hour later, he got a text.

**Numerology deleted. Not even coherent enough to influence human behaviour.  
-SH**

John grinned and went upstairs, still wondering where Sherlock and his violin were going, so late. None of his business, he told himself.

Still, one of the penalties for doing so much writing was that his imagination tended to apply itself to all kinds of things he’d never considered before, especially the unfathomable abyss that was the mind of his mad flatmate.

Where do a man and his violin go in London at 2300 hours?

Was Sherlock serenading someone’s balcony?

This sent him on a whole silly flight of fancy; there had been a conversation not long before the—before—in which Sherlock had accidentally revealed a knowledge of Shakespeare. Well, if shouting “cursed be he who cries ‘Hold, enough!’” over the enthusiastically stabbed body of a second murder victim can be considered in that light. When pressed, he simply admitted that Shakespeare had been “useful” in the past. What an excellent actor he would have made, John reflected, with his ability to ape nearly anyone, his resonant voice and amazing memory. Not Viola, perhaps, he giggled, imagining a gawky young Holmes pressed into service at school, but Hamlet? Certainly, he was a natural, since he already talked to a skull. John grinned to himself as he cleaned his teeth, and if he lingered a bit to consider the prospect of Sherlock in a tunic and tights, well, there was no one the wiser.

***

The third time, John couldn’t hold his tongue. 

“Want company?” Sherlock had the second violin case open on the couch and was digging in the first. He came up with a small lavender cyclinder, which he opened and peered in. 

“Hmm?”

“I said, want company?” John shook out the paper pointedly. He’d worked at the clinic and not had the time to read it in the morning.

“What makes you think I would?” Sherlock was tucking his prize into the second case, which he shut with a final snap. 

“Ah, no reason.” John watched him as if he could solve the mystery by staring, which indeed, Sherlock usually could, so.

But Sherlock simply swirled into his coat and clumped off down the stairs.

John would clearly need to bring a scholar’s mind to this problem. He got out his laptop—typing helped him to think through things—and considered what he knew.

The cursor blinked for a long time after a very short list:

No special clothing.  
Violin, but not his usual violin (difference? Where does he keep it?)  
Late Evening.  
Days of week or month?

Was he taking lessons? Sherlock respected expertise and would apply himself to a ridiculous degree when possessed by a new obsession. But who gives lessons in the middle of the night? Why a new violin? Two, in fact. He’d noted when the case was open on the couch that there were actually two violins, nested head to foot, and three bows, tucked in together.

John went to bed without answers. At half one, his phone dinged with a text. 

**Johnny I hardly knew ye.  
-SH**

_Are you drunk?_

There was no reply.

****

“What’s the second violin for, then?”

Sherlock grins infectiously.

“Scordatura, John!” he projects as if he’s trying out for the opera and whirls out with a wink very much like the one he’d given John the first day they met, at Bart’s.

John reminisces long enough that he’s forgotten the foreign-sounding word and can’t google it.

****

One night a week becomes two, and two becomes four.

“You aren’t going to tell me then? Where you go?” John spits it out abruptly, one night.  
Sherlock glances over from where he was stuffing one long arm into his coat.

“You haven’t asked, that I can recall.”

John’s silent a moment. “You’re right, I haven’t. I suppose I thought if I should know, you’d tell me. Because that’s kind of how friendship works.” He mutters afterward, “Among humans.”

Sherlock’s stopped, but isn’t looking at him.

“I—you could know. I mean, there’s no reason you shouldn’t.”

“Well, you don’t have to tell me, you know. I mean, you don’t owe me that, or….”

“There are things you could know that…some things are easier to tell than others. Human nature, John. I’m as prone to it as the next man.” It comes out just shy of his usual high-and-mighty.

John begins to wonder if they are still talking about Sherlock’s nearly-nightly violin sojourns.

“When I was….Abroad. There were things I did that I . . . Didn’t want to do. But there were also things I did that were. Better. That, made things better. Those, I found I missed. This is one.”

He peels off his gloves, his coat, his scarf. He sets the second case on the couch and opens it, taking one of the violins out. He tightens up the bow thoughtfully, not looking at John, who’s barely breathing. Sherlock has never said anything about what he did while he was dead, even in the face of unashamed emotional blackmail.

He tucks the violin under his chin and tunes, retensions the bow a bit. It’s strange, because it’s not as if John’s spent any conscious study of Sherlock’s violin habits, but he knows, somehow, that this is a little off, the way his limbs are arranged around the geometry of violin and bow. His bow hand is in a different position, his body slumps casually. Only his eyes are the same, half lidded as he fingers a melody without bowing, little ghost-sounds tinging out as he moves his fingers. He puts bow to strings and what comes out is…unexpected. What he plays is recognizably Irish, but it’s nothing like the luck-of-the-Irish, Riverdancey Irish that John’s mostly heard. It’s winsome and slippery, with great strange echoing intervals below a sinuous melody. Sherlock’s bow is moving differently, little bounces at each change of direction, an occasional shiver of movement that makes a percussive little trill. Sherlock’s mouth is relaxed and his eyes vague, focusing inward as the tune winds to a long pause on an open chord, then picks back up, not only a different tune, but a different style. It’s rougher, more exciting than soothing, and a little quicker, but still a bit sad. It’s the same kind of sorrow, but where the first tune is achingly lonely, the second is like a wake, sorrow shared and the burden made lighter. It makes John’s chest hurt.

When Sherlock stops, the silence seems thunderous. There’s nothing John can do but gape a bit. “My god, Sherlock, that’s.” Sherlock’s already slotting the bow into its holder and twirling the violin around to fit into the empty spot in the case. 

He looks up, and his face softens when he sees John’s. “You can, come along. If you like.”

John gets his coat.

***

They wind up at a pub which by all measures looks a bit on the grubby side of ordinary. When the door opens, something not-ordinary spills out: there’s noise. Not just noise, but noise and music, raucous and not quite all together. 

Sherlock swoops in ahead of John, already unbuttoning his coat. He heads for the back of the pub straightaway, raising a hand in greeting to the barkeep, who hollers, “Oi, Johnny!”

John steps up to the bar himself and orders a pint, then follows Sherlock to a back corner where it’s clear the action is occurring. The musicians number about eight and have commandeered three tiny tables and moved them in convenient ways. It doesn’t look like the geography can possibly work; limbs and bows and bellows and the business ends of flutes and guitars and a couple of stringed instruments John’s never even seen before all vie for the incredibly tiny space. 

Sherlock’s extracting his violin from its case when a woman with black Irish looks and a few too many teeth calls out, “Johnny, saved you a chair.” He smiles and wedges himself into what seems to be the place of honor, with the fiddler and her dark, beat-up looking violin on one side and a stout gentleman with a pearly red buttonbox on the other. 

“Did you bring a friend?” The young bohran player nods at John.

“Yes, this is….well, just call him Captain.” John looks quizzically at Sherlock. 

“Hey, Cap.” The bohran player bangs on his drum a couple of times, as if he needs to punctuate the conversation. 

“I’m Rick.” He shakes sandy hair out of his eyes. “This is Jim, Hazel, Paddy, and Frank.” 

John nods and smiles. He gets an assessing look from Frank, who says, “Whistle?” gaze clearly searching out an instrument somewhere about John’s person. John is answering, “No, nothing, I…” when somebody starts a tune. The players’ focus whips around to each other, and they’re off.  
John’s first pint is accompanied by lively tunes. He entertains himself by watching the way they communicate while playing, with gestures and signals, occasionally with a shouted “A” or “C” as they change keys.

By the time he gets his second pint, the tunes get a bit melancholy. The guitar player (Paddy?) says, “Play that air, Johnny.” 

Sherlock smiles and nods, and shoulders the violin, winding out a lonely melody that seems to wander through keys and time signatures, never quite making it home. The second fiddle joins with drones and by the time it’s over, conversation all over the pub has hushed. The moment of silence after it’s over is a tribute like a standing ovation in a concert hall. The barkeep comes over with a lowball in hand and sets it in front of Sherlock. “Table up front sent this your way, mate.” He squeezes his shoulder, and Sherlock just smiles up, a small stunted smile. 

“How about a slide?” The accordion player starts in and the mood is broken, but the sadness stays with John. 

It sticks with him even through his third pint, the one that traditionally makes him a bit maudlin anyway. They keep playing, tune after tune, and they’re blending together, for John, but the people-watching continues to be rather riveting, especially watching his friend interact. He’s not really shamming, John doesn’t think, though of course he’s not exactly being undiluted Sherlock either. The musicians don’t actually talk that much, John notices. A few words exchanged between tunes, perhaps, a story about where a particular tune originated or where the player learned it. The interaction’s actually quite structured; his analytical side suggests this might be quite soothing for Sherlock, to socialize within a framework.

It’s after one when the session starts to break up. This, he’s informed, is early—several of the players have to work in the morning. The other musicians clap John on the shoulder and wish him good night, as if Sherlock’s bringing him has made him immediately part of the group.

Sherlock informs him this is an early night, because most of these players have to work in the morning. John, who’s off at the surgery in the morning, thank god, shudders in mock-horror. As they shrug into their coats he finally asks, “Johnny?” 

Sherlock nearly looks embarrassed. “I used it while I was gone. When I got back, it just seemed…easier. Not to. Be me.”

“It usually is. No matter who you are.”

***

They decide to walk. Sherlock slings his case over his shoulder and they set off, shoulder to shoulder. Uncharacteristically, John’s mostly studying the ground, not the lay of the land.

“You know what?”

“No, but I’m guessing it’s something you wouldn’t say without that third pint.”

“Shut up,” John says, entirely without heat. “I’ve lived with you for, what, three years, now, counting the time you were…away.”

“You can say ‘dead’, John.” The deep voice is tinged with amusement.

“I know I can, but I’d prefer not to. As I was saying, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so relaxed and happy. You should…keep it up.”

Sherlock sends him a startled look that John doesn’t see.

“Outside of Baker street, you mean.”

John looks over. “Sure, outside of home. And inside it too, if you want.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence, each with his own thoughts.

They hang their jackets, in tandem, on the hooks inside the door in 221B. John has a flash of—he can suddenly see them both, twenty years on, climbing the stairs a bit slower, perhaps, hanging their jackets in tandem, making tea in the quiet after a case or a pub session, or…He huffs a little laugh, a lawn bowling tournament or something. Sherlock would get into some strange affliction like lawn bowling. Probably bore him silly with the physics of the bowls.

It occurs to him, and he’s never, in the crazy years with Sherlock, had the reason to really consider it, but now it occurs to him that he would be happy. Happy to see Sherlock at 40, and 50, and 60, hair growing grey and eyes ever wintrier as he accumulates vast stores of arcane knowledge and strange skills, and complains ceaselessly about the imbecilic tendencies of the criminal classes. 

He would miss touch, sex, romance. Being practically groped so Sherlock can borrow his mobile does not, he thinks, quite count. But he could live with it, could live with what he has now, and be happy. 

He puts the kettle on. 

Sherlock has, perhaps, caught his pensive mood, because he’s put down his case and is staring out the window, as is his wont lately. His tall body is a long, dark parabola against the vertical line of the curtain.

“Do you ever think about the future, Sherlock?”

“That is a ridiculous question.”

“I mean, do you ever think about…will we keep on…doing what we’re doing?”

“I expect,” says the resonant baritone, like the narrator from the wings of a play, “that you will fixate on a woman, sooner or later, and marry her, and move to the suburbs to be a proper doctor. She will be accustomed to military men, either from her family or as a serviceman herself.” This is said without rancor, just a statement of fact. “I will call you occasionally to join me on a case, and you will occasionally come. But we will grow apart, people do, and find it more difficult to spend time together. You will, perhaps, think of me when your limp pains you, and I will think of you every time I must deal with some incompetent specimen of a forensics team.”

“So, pretty often then.” John jokes. Sherlock doesn’t react.

“I will retire, one day, to the countryside. I have some researches in mind that might be of use, once I cannot do all this running about.” And besides, John thinks, you couldn’t bear to be in London as an observer.

John goes to the other window and shoves both fists in his pockets, feeling the stretch of the fabric and the strange tightness in his chest echoing it. 

“Thing is, I would have said you were right, three years ago, or one year, or six months ago. But lately I think…that’s not what I want. I like what we do. I like my life, as it is.”

Sherlock’s focus shifts from the London outside the window to the John inside, his gaze sharp and face expressionless. 

The kettle whistles. John breathes once, a little deeper than normal, and goes to make tea.


End file.
